


Not With a Bang But a Whimper

by Irollforinitiative



Series: Theirs Is Not to Reason Why [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, I swear it will get good soon, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Psychological Trauma, Violence, soon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irollforinitiative/pseuds/Irollforinitiative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft chooses.  And then he must deal with the fallout of that choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not With a Bang But a Whimper

_Mycroft didn’t think. He didn’t process.  Instead he stopped.  Stopped everything.  For once in his life, Mycroft Holmes allowed the fear and instinct to take over.  He allowed his hind brain to respond because he was incapable of doing it.  He was beaten.  Without his permission his mouth opened and his voice shouted a name raggedly._

 

“Greg!”

 

Mycroft’s voice seemed to echo in the empty building as Moriarty lowered his gun to Sherlock’s back.  The sound of the shot overlaid with the echoes of Mycroft’s shout, creating a cacophony. Sherlock fell forward as the bullet left his body and buried itself in the ground.   Everything seemed to move at an inordinately slow pace as Mycroft watched his fate unfurl. It hit Mycroft suddenly as he watched Sherlock’s face press slowly into the dirt and he realized something: he was angry.  Not in a wild way. In a calm, Holmesian way.  He suddenly felt entirely in control as he raised his gun and fired without thinking.  Under his cold gaze he watched Moriarty crumple to the ground, his blood mixing with Anthea’s and Sherlock’s to create a vivid testimony to the horrors still happening.  Something seemed to shake Mycroft from his trained and practiced resolve as he stared at the gun in his hands.  His steel mask slipped and his heart cried out in anguish.

Dimly, Mycroft realized what had jarred his attention.  It was the wound in his baby brother’s chest making a horrid sucking sound.   Like someone gasping for air underwater.  Because that was essentially what it was.  His lung was filling with blood as he struggled for air.  John was at his side, tears spilling down his cheeks freely as he put all his weight on his hands that were now pressed to the hole in Sherlock’s back.  He was shouting something and it took Mycroft a second to realize what it was.

 

“Mycroft! Either call 999 or cut Greg loose so he can!”

 

Mycroft nodded and fumbled with the bindings on Greg’s wrists. He was moving quickly but it still felt slow and bumbling as he untied the knot and Greg struggled free, pulling out his mobile and promptly calling for the ambulance.  Mycroft just stared.  He watched the eyes of his baby brother, the tiny brother who he used to watch sleep in his crib, become glassy and drift shut.  Mycroft suddenly remembered watching Sherlock sleep when he was only one month old.  Mycroft used to watch him breathe, worrying that he would suddenly stop.  As he sat in the dirt, he found himself doing the same thing.  Counting each breath. In.  Out.  In.  Out. ….In.  …..Out.  It was becoming slower. So slow. 

 

Just as Mycroft began to realize that Sherlock was dying before his eyes, by his own hand, men rushed in and sirens blared and suddenly he was being dragged aside.  Sherlock was loaded into an ambulance and rushed off, John still at his side. Mycroft looked around desperate for Greg only to realize the warmth and pressure around his shoulders was Greg’s arms.  The D.I. had his face pressed into Mycroft’s shoulder to hide the silent tears that leaked out. Mycroft took a shaky breath and shook his head.

 

“No.”

 

Greg looked up, a little startled. “Mycroft.  Oh God, Mycroft.  Are you okay?”

 

“No.” he shook his head again.

 

Greg frowned deeper and pulled Mycroft tightly into his embrace, kissing his hair. “It’s okay.  They got here in time.  Sherlock’s still alive.”

 

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I’m sorry.” His shoulders shook and Greg’s shirt became damp, but Mycroft did not feel the tears leave his eyes.

 

Greg started rocking back and forth a little, kissing Mycroft’s hair again and again. “Shhh.  It’s not your fault.  It was Moriarty.  It was him. It wasn’t you. Okay? I love you.”

 

“How…how can you still love me?” Mycroft’s voice was quiet and cold.  It was what he had been wondering since he had realized Greg was holding him.

 

Greg got quiet for a second, his face tight. When he spoke his voice was quiet. “Because you’re still the best man I’ve ever known.  And…and you chose me. How could I not?”

 

Mycroft looked up at Greg who had a tight smile.  It was not an answer.  It was a hope.  A hope on both their parts that proved to be futile as they stared at one another and saw through the fallacy of it all. Mycroft had willingly let his brother be shot to protect Greg.  He could not live with that guilt.  Nor could Greg. But they could pretend.  Greg didnot see this.  He cound not even see it in himself.  His eyes showed hope.  But Mycroft saw it all.  By his calculations they had months or weeks depending on how Sherlock did.  Sherlock…

 

Mycroft’s face fell again and he pressed his head into Greg’s chest.  Hiding from the inevitable.  Seeking momentary reprieve.  Because in the next moment he could loose his brother and his boyfriend.  And he was not sure he could handle that.  Thankfully, as they rushed into the hospital, he was greeted by a smiling John.  Mycroft felt his knees shake at the sight and he smiled. John jogged over and laid a still bloody hand on Mycroft’s elbow.

 

“It’s okay. He’s alive.”

 

“Oh thank God.” Mycroft let out the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. “He’ll live?”

 

John’s face grew paler. “Yes.  But he’s in a coma.  So when he wakes up it’s….it’s entirely unknown what kind of condition he will be in.”

 

Mycroft frowned. “From a lung wound?”

 

“It was a high velocity round.  Those create a lot of shockwaves in a body.  It…it shattered his spine.”

 

Mycroft gagged on nothing at the thought. “Fuck.”

 

John nodded wearily. “But…but it’s only a small chance.  Chances are he wakes up tomorrow.”

 

“And if he doesn’t?”

 

“If he is in a coma for over 36 hours, his chances of waking up with normal brain function become very… low.”

 

Mycroft nodded and straightened.  Greg’s eyebrows knit in worry as he watched Mycroft pull back into his proper and icy shell.  He was completely in it.  Not even a hint of the soft and caring man that he’d come to love.  But Greg knew it was necessary.  In fact, he wanted nothing more that to be able to do the same.  Mycroft curtly nodded at John as he strode down the hall.

 

“I’ll make the necessary arrangements for you to remain present, John.  Gregory, come along.”

 

Greg trotted after Mycroft and couldn’t help but stare at the bloodstain that was now on Mycroft’s sleeve. Sherlock’s blood. It matched the comingled blood that stained the hems of his trousers.

 

“Mycroft.  Are you okay?”

 

Mycroft turned quickly and smiled tightly. “Of course I am.  But I have much I must attend to.  Go home.  Sleep.  And I mean our home, not the damned sofa you’ve been sleeping on.  I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

 

Greg frowned and nodded, the shock and stress of the last two hours clouding his mind enough that sleep at any cost seemed a good idea. “Okay.  I…I love you, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft smiled softly and kissed Greg quickly.  It was tense and brisk, entirely unlike any kiss they had ever shared before. “Sleep, Gregory.  I’ll be home soon.”

 

Greg went home in a haze and collapsed on the bed.  Any rational thought was snuffed out by the smell of his bed.  It smell strongly of Mycroft and, somehow, of himself as well.  He let the smell lull him into an immediate sleep, in total disregard of his dirty and bloodstained clothes. When the sun peeked through the curtains, Greg woke with a start.  He stared at the clock, half asleep, and did the math. It had been late when they’d all been at the warehouse, but far more time had passed than it should have.  Mycroft should have returned home. Greg stood up and started for the door before deciding to change.  Most of his clothes were at John’s, but he found some old jeans and a sweatshirt.  It wasn’t preferable or even remotely professional but he found he lacked the ability to care.  He just needed to find Mycroft and take care of him. 

 

It turned out to be entirely too easy to find Mycroft.  Greg rushed to the hospital, thinking to check with John first, but instead he found John sitting in the waiting room in fresh clothes and looking like he’d slept in the chair.  He gave him a small smile.

 

“Hey, mate.  How are you?”

 

“I think I can confidently say I’ve been better.  You here to collect your boyfriend?”

 

Greg frowned. “What?”

 

“Is that not the word you two are using?”

 

“It is just…Mycroft’s here?”

 

John nodded, seeming confused that Greg didn’t know this. “Yeah. He’s been there all night.  Won’t change. Won’t eat.  Won’t sleep.”

 

Greg looked to the room John had pointed at.  It was Sherlock’s private room. Greg’s eyes went to was Sherlock first.  Even when he’d been unconscious in a gutter, Sherlock hadn’t looked so fragile.  He had so many machines and wires attached to him and his chest didn’t rise and fall as the bandaging around it was too thick for any motion to be seen. He looked dead.  The only thing that indicated he wasn’t was the quiet beeping of the heart monitor.  The heart monitor that Mycroft sat next to, watching.  His eyes were tired and his face was empty as he watched it bounce and beep, proving the continued life of his baby brother.

 

"Mycroft…" Greg didn't know what to say.

 

Mycroft turned and smiled softly at Greg, "Hello, my dear.  Did you sleep well?"

 

"I did.  You didn't come home."

 

"I could not leave him." Mycroft turned back to stare at Sherlock.

 

"I understand but…you have to eat something.  Or at least change clothes."

 

Mycroft looked down at his elbow that still had a bloody handprint from John and nodded, "Okay. But I will not leave the room. Have An--have someone fetch something for me."

 

Greg nodded and looked at Mycroft, worried.  So deep was Mycroft's grief that Greg didn't dare examine his own emotions. Anything he felt was far less important than taking care of Mycroft.  He stepped outside of the room and found someone he recognized from Mycroft's staff.  After giving orders for fresh clothes to be brought he went to the snack machine to procure something sweet and calorie laden since it would likely be all Mycroft ate that day.  John was sitting in one of the chairs by the coffee machine staring at his full and now cold cup of coffee.  Greg sat next to him.

 

"How are you doing, John?"

 

"He's alive."

 

"He is.  Just remember that. He's alive and he'll be okay."

 

John shook his head and looked up at Greg, "No I mean…I watched him jump.  I watched him die.  It took months but I came to terms with that even if it still hurt to breathe and live. And then…he was never dead."

 

"I know.  It must be hard." he gently patted John's knee.

 

"You're not freaking out," John frowned and looked at Greg closely, "You knew, didn't you?"

 

Greg looked down, ashamed, "I did.  But only because Mycroft knew."

 

"How?"

 

"He didn't know at first.  I ran to his club after I heard about Bart's because I had to be the one to tell him.  I don't think I've ever seen him look so broken…well." he glanced up at Mycroft sitting by Sherlock's bedside and shook his head, "But then suddenly it changed.  Mycroft looked at the case and saw where things didn't add up.  And then Sherlock sent him a text.  If it makes you feel better it was to protect you.  To protect us.  Moriarty was going to kill you, me, and Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock didn't jump."

 

John's eyes swam with moisture as he looked towards Sherlock's room, livid, "Fat lot of good it did him in the end." John stood up and stormed out, throwing out the cold coffee as he fled down the stairs. 

 

Greg shook his head and bought a chocolate and caramel candy bar and a bottle of water before returning to Mycroft's side.  The staff member slipped in after him and laid down a garment bag that would contain a fresh suit for Mycroft.  Greg smiled at him in thanks and laid his hand on the back of Mycroft's neck.

 

"Sweetheart, time to change clothes and eat."

 

Mycroft nodded and stood up, seeming to not know what to do with himself. Greg sighed and closed the door and shades to the room before stepping close to Mycroft and starting to undress him.  Mycroft seemed to come back to reality as Greg pulled his shirt off.  He frowned and clutched the fabric.

 

"Gregory, what are you doing?"

 

"Helping you change out of your dirty clothes."

 

Mycroft looked around for a moment and nodded, "Ah yes. Obviously.  I can handle it on my own, thank you." He quickly and efficiently changed clothes and shoes. 

 

Greg shoved the dirty suit into a bag. He didn't care how much Mycroft's clothes cost, everything he'd been wearing was going to be discarded of.  Mycroft didn't need those memories.  He smiled when Mycroft ate the candy bar and drank the water.  However, the guilt and the pain were etched on Mycroft's face to an extent that Greg had never seen before.  When Mycroft had let his icy mask slip away before, it had always been for something pleasant.  Even their occasional spats were pleasant because, in the end, they reminded both of them that they were in a committed relationship where people argued and laughed and shagged and slept. Greg sighed and watched as Mycroft and not the steely outer casing he so often wore fractured and cracked.

 

"Is there anything else I can do, Mycroft?"

 

He shook his head absently, "No. Thank you, Gregory."

 

Greg dropped to his knees next to Mycroft and took his hand before kissing it softly, "I love you so much, Mycroft.  Don't forget that. I'm here for you.  I don't care what you need.  Even if you just need to shout at someone, I want to be that person for you.  Please."

 

Mycroft's eyes shot up and he laced the fingers of his other hand into Greg's hair, "How can you still love me?"

 

Greg looked up at Mycroft, "You are the love of my life. I will always love you.  Now stop asking silly questions."

 

Mycroft smiled softly and cupped Greg's cheek, stroking Greg's bottom lip with his thumb softly, "I adore you, Greg.  You are doing so much just by being here.  I do not think I could exist right now if it were not for you.  I am sorry you must have that responsibility, but it is yours."

 

Greg smiled softly, "I take it gladly."

 

Mycroft leaned down and kissed Greg soundly, tilting his head and slipping his tongue into Greg's mouth.  Greg sighed and ignored his knees’ protesting as he knelt on the hard hospital floor.  He slipped his hand into Mycroft's hair and they kissed desperately, both seemingly aware of how much was at stake for them now. After a few long minutes Mycroft pulled away slightly and smiled.

 

"Thank you, Greg."

 

"It is my pleasure.  Do you want me to stay in here or in the waiting room?"

 

"You can go home.  You need not stay here."

 

Greg stood up and winced as his knees ached, "Mycroft, even if you and I weren't together I'd stay.  Sherlock's a good friend. So, where would you prefer me?"

 

"I suppose the waiting room. Makes it easier to not think." he blushed.

 

Greg nodded and kissed the top of Mycroft's head, "I'll be just there if you need anything."

 

Greg retired to the waiting room and sat and waited.  And so it continued for two full days. People brought them food and fresh clothes, and somewhere in there Greg was brought his laptop and some paperwork that needed his attention.  It kept him distracted.  But not distracted enough that he didn't notice that Mycroft hadn't slept but for a few minutes here and there.  Not distracted enough that he didn't notice John hadn't returned.  But distracted enough that he didn't have to think about what Mycroft had done for him.  It was a gift.  A gift that could never be matched or even properly appreciated.  He was forever in Mycroft's debt and the few times he thought about it, it had made his chest hurt enough that he put it aside. 

 

Suddenly Greg found himself waking up in the painful hospital chair, permanently stiff from sleeping there. He looked at his phone and felt his heart stop.  Today was the line.  If Sherlock didn't wake up today his chances were no longer even hopeful. Greg went to get coffee and while he walked he ran into John. A haggard John who looked worse than Greg felt.

 

"John…you're back."

 

John nodded absently, "He's not up yet, is he?"

 

Greg shook his head, "No. No change."

 

John nodded and kept nodding as his eyes welled with tears.  Greg's eyebrows knit in concern and he pulled John close, hugging him tight. 

 

"It's okay, mate.  It's gonna be okay. I promise."

 

"What if he never wakes up? He's my best friend and I already lost him once.  I can't do it again. I can't!"

 

Greg held John closer, "Don't think that. He's there and he's alive.  He's just healing. It's Sherlock, when has he ever been on time?  He operates on his own clock.  We just have to wait for his lazy arse to be ready."

 

John chuckled wetly and nodded, pulling a back a little, "Thank you."

 

Greg patted John's arm roughly and grinned.  Before he could respond to John, a man in a suit came racing towards Sherlock's room.  Greg and John frowned and jogged after him.  They got there in time to hear half the conversation. Mycroft was not pleased.

 

"What do you mean he's gone?!"

 

"I'm sorry sir.  We just got word that he had escaped." The young man looked terrified and justly so.  Mycroft was looming over him and his fatigue caused him to look even more severe than usual.

 

"How did he do it? Who was at fault?"

 

"He…he had help."

 

"And how do you know that!?"

 

"This, sir." He held a phone out to Mycroft.

 

Mycroft took it and played the voicemail that was loaded.  As he listened he grew pale.  He vacantly waved at the man, "Go. I'll have orders soon."

 

As soon as the man was gone, Greg shut the door and rushed forward to Mycroft, who had slumped back into the chair.  John only stared at Sherlock, a terrified expression on his face.

 

"Mycroft, love, what is it, what's wrong?"

 

Mycroft shook his head, "I've lost everything. I don't win anything. It's all gone."

 

Greg shook his head in confusion and Mycroft set the phone to speaker and pressed play. Moriarty's voice filled the room.

 

"Hiiii! How are you? Oh, I don't even know why I ask, I'm sure you're doing horrid.  How's loverboy doing, knowing you'd let your own brother die for him? I can't wait for him to realize he can't handle that inequity.  It'll be fireworks.  But sadly I won't be around for that.  I'll be somewhere tropical.  I think Britain's too cold.  Too boring.  You let slip that my favorite toy is still alive.  That was very stupid of you.  Gave me something to live for. Of course, by now you've been given the news that he's gone. As am I.  So, Mycroft Holmes, I want you to look around the room and think about what you have.  A dying brother.  A relationship with an expiration date.  And a nice weight on your conscience.  And what do I have? A new start, with everything in life that really matters.  Ta-ta!"

 

Greg stared at Mycroft as Mycroft stared at Sherlock and he realized it was all true.  Mycroft had lost everything. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from T.S. Eliot's poem "The Hollow Men"
> 
> "This is the way the world ends  
> This is the way the world ends  
> This is the way the world ends  
> Not with a bang but a whimper."


End file.
